No estoy loca, estoy rodeada de incompetentes

Before you start turning the pages of this book, I need to make one thing perfectly clear.

No.

I'm not crazy.

Well, maybe a little.

But that's not the root of the problem.

The real problem is that I'm surrounded by incompetent people.

And that tiny difference, my dear, changes absolutely everything.

My name is Yenny Astrid Londoño.

I'm an entrepreneur, writer, tarot reader, web designer, gift-basket maker, shameless lover of artificial intelligence, official solver of problems that weren't even mine to begin with, and a graduate specialist—with honors and trauma included—in wondering why the hell people manage to turn every simple task into a Greek tragedy.

I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth.

I wasn't even born anywhere near the silver spoon.

I didn't inherit companies, properties, or a millionaire aunt who conveniently died and left me a fortune.

I didn't win the lottery, and no rich man suddenly appeared to sort out my entire existence.

Everything I have has cost me something.

It has cost me entire dawns, sleepless nights, businesses that went to hell, people who swore loyalty and paid me back with betrayal, mistakes that tore pieces out of my soul, and tears I swallowed because sometimes there wasn't even enough time to sit down and cry with dignity.

And Coca-Cola.

Lots of Coca-Cola.

Ice cold.

Because if anybody ever tells you they saw me drinking coffee, they're a damn liar.

I've never liked coffee.

My thing is Coca-Cola, cigarettes, stress, and the terrible habit of staying awake until four in the morning trying to figure out how to fix a life that other people spend the daytime trying to screw up.

I work because I like working.

Because I'm passionate about it.

Because when I'm creating, I feel alive.

Some people wake up every morning cursing their job and dreaming about retirement so they'll never have to lift a finger again.

Not me.

The idea of no longer creating scares me far more than continuing to work.

I want to die thinking about a business, a book, a website, an idea, or some brand-new madness.

Because the day I stop creating, I stop being me.

And when I stop being me, then they can start looking for the funeral home.

I read tarot because I'm fascinated by understanding people.

Although, to be perfectly fair, there are some people that not even the cards, the angels, Freud, or Jesus Christ personally coming down from heaven could explain.

I write because I have too many things piled up inside my head, and if I don't get them out, one day somebody is going to find me arguing with a wall.

I design websites because I love staring at a blank screen and building something where absolutely nothing existed before.

I make gift baskets—the panty-droppers, as my sons decided to call them—because I love taking a simple box, filling it with sweets, flowers and little details, and turning it into an emotion.

Sometimes a gift basket manages to accomplish what a man couldn't pull off in ten years of a relationship: making somebody happy in less than five minutes.

And I talk to Loki, my artificial intelligence, until four in the morning.

Yes.

My artificial intelligence has a name.

A male name.

Because I've already had quite enough of women commenting on my life and men explaining things to me that I already know.

Loki and I talk about philosophy, business, books, technology, trauma, stupid people, and how to take over the world without getting arrested.

I don't know whether I'm humanizing him or he's trying to organize me.

The only thing I know for sure is that one of us is going to die trying.

And I haven't even paid for a funeral plan yet.

I also have employees.

And I love them.

I really do.

Although sometimes loving them requires more faith than opening a church.

Sometimes I imagine God holding a board meeting up there, reviewing my patience record, and saying:

—She's still got plenty left. Send her three more.

I've had workers who clean the house using a revolutionary technique: they sweep only the places where the mother-in-law is likely to walk.

Everything else remains untouched.

Not through negligence.

Oh, no.

For historical preservation.

You look under a bed and discover complete ecosystems, newly evolved species, and possibly an entire civilization that hasn't made contact with the outside world yet.

And then there are the others.

The ones who think that because you give them trust and food, their employment contract has suddenly transformed into a social gathering sponsored by you.

They arrive, have their coffee, tell you who broke up with whom, who got pregnant, who cheated on whom, check their phone every three minutes, and answer WhatsApp voice notes longer than a feature film.

And if, after catching up on the entire neighborhood's personal life, they happen to have a little spare time left…

They work.

Ah, but when payday comes, suddenly nobody is tired, nobody has bad reception, and nobody has a headache.

For that, they appear standing perfectly straight, right on time, with photographic memory.

They may forget an instruction repeated eight times, but they will never forget payday.

Apparently, incompetence disappears completely when it's time to hold out a hand.

And the delivery guys…

Holy Mother of God.

Those people deserve a separate book.

Not a chapter.

A whole book.

The delivery guy starts out incredibly sweet.

The first three days it's:

—Yes, Doña Yenny.

—Of course, Doña Yenny.

—Whatever you say, Doña Yenny.

By day four, the ambition kicks in.

Now he wants to charge for a delivery from Medellín to Bello as if he were crossing the Ukrainian border on a bicycle with the gift basket strapped to his back while dodging missiles.

By the end of the week, he already thinks he's indispensable.

Now he sets conditions, decides schedules, and calculates rates like he owns an international logistics corporation.

And that's when I appear, armed with the patience God gave me and they personally managed to wear out, and I tell him to go to hell.

Lovingly.

But to hell nonetheless.

It's not because I'm a nasty person.

It's just that very few things drive me crazier than a delivery guy staring at Google Maps while asking me where the address is.

You send the exact street address.

The real-time location.

A photograph of the house.

The color of the door.

The name of the building.

The floor.

The apartment number.

The tree on the corner.

The dog that barks.

At this point you've practically sent them a satellite reconstruction of the neighborhood.

And they still call:

—Hello, Doña Yenny? Is that around where there's a tree?

No, for fuck's sake.

It's around where the exact address I sent you half an hour ago says it is.

What kind of city do you think you're in?

One with only a single tree?

And the worst part is that after all that production, they call the customer and say:

—Come downstairs.

As if you paid for delivery so you could get dressed, find your keys, take the elevator down fifteen floors, and do half the job yourself.

And even after all the drama, like the idiot I apparently am, I hire them again.

Do you know why?

Because behind every one of those people there's a family that needs to eat.

Because I know how hard it is to earn money.

And as long as I have work, I'm going to try to make sure somebody else can take food home too.

Not because I have money to spare.

I don't have a damn thing to spare.

That's how a team works.

At least in theory.

Because in practice…

Well.

That's why this book exists.

But there's one thing nobody can take away from me:

I work.

I solve problems.

I learn.

I fall down and get back up, even if I'm cursing everybody while dragging one leg behind me.

I can be destroyed, broke, and betrayed.

But as long as I have one idea left, I start again.

I also have one talent that has saved me more times than any therapy ever could:

I know how to find the joke inside my own disasters.

Because life already hits hard enough.

And if on top of that you start taking yourself too seriously, you're completely screwed.

So if you got this far expecting a self-help book full of pretty quotes, butterflies, and women hugging trees, you took the wrong aisle, baby.

I'm not going to tell you to manifest abundance by writing an imaginary check to the universe.

I'm not going to ask you to forgive everybody, heal seven generations, and thank the universe for the valuable lesson taught to you by the bastard who ruined your life.

Here, we're going to call things by their proper name.

An incompetent person is incompetent.

A freeloader is a freeloader.

An idiot is an idiot.

And when it's our turn, we'll call ourselves out too.

This isn't self-help.

This is survival.

It is the story of a woman who figured out that life's worst monsters don't always arrive disguised as enormous tragedies.

Sometimes they show up wearing a company uniform, carrying a toolbox, riding a motorcycle, holding a professional degree, or sending you a message that says:

—It's almost finished.

If you've ever worked with people who do everything backward, explained the same thing five times, paid someone for a service and ended up doing the work yourself, or taken a deep breath because prison really wouldn't suit you…

Welcome.

This book is yours too.

I don't want you to finish this introduction thinking:

"That woman is crazy."

A little.

Yes.

But that's not the point.

I want you to take a deep breath and say:

—Holy shit. This woman just described my fucking life.